


Staff

by bluevinegar



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Alcohol, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluff, Gen, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-30
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-19 04:21:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 1,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17594537
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluevinegar/pseuds/bluevinegar
Summary: A collection of fragments of short stories, featuring Sanson and Guydelot. Sometimes together, sometimes not, but always terribly fond of the other. ... plus the occasional appearance from Nourval.





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Post-Stormblood. A moment in the rain.

The day finds him in the rain, in the regretfully open North Shroud, overlooking a shipment of supplies headed towards Ishgard. The mantle he’s wearing does little to keep him dry. Enough mud clings to his boots that it could be considered a second layer of protection. It smells like wet bird.

“This’s balls.”

Sanson wipes some rainwater off his brow, the motion doesn’t seem to do much but spread it elsewhere. He frowns. “It… isn’t ideal, but orders are orders.”

“‘Orders’, my arse.” Guydelot sniffs. The caravan feels like it’s moving in slow motion. He feels like he’s moving in slow motion, the ground pulling him in with each step. What fool would attack in this weather? Even the local vilekin are loathe to hunt on such treacherous ground. “They’ve got us doing grunt work.”

“ _Guydelot._ ”

Guydelot clicks his tongue and drops the matter. For all they've accomplished, the work they've been assigned as of late just feels more akin to petty punishment. Patrol the streets inside Gridania, patrol the roads outside Gridania, escort this caravan here--what is he even supposed to do, _serenade the birds?_  The order had argued that simpler missions would benefit their still small, fledgling unit after the ordeal with Nourval, but the incident had been nearly two weeks ago. Furthermore, even stitches did little to stop Sanson from being a workaholic. The man is far more hot-blooded than they give him credit for. 

But whatever.

They walk a handful of yalms in silence.

"… hey.”

“Hm?” Sanson wipes at his brow again, and Guydelot can’t help but wonder if it’s purely due to discomfort or if he’s fidgeting because he can’t have his tome out in this weather.

“Is there…”

“Is there what?” After a moment, Sanson adds. “You’ve been distracted all day.”

“Aah, how did it go.” Guydelot shakes some rainwater off his hood. He thinks back to the woman he'd attempted to serenade at the Carline Canopy last night. A regular listener, a favorite in the way that a notorious gossip could occasionally fill in gaps of information. But this time, there was something in the way she met his sweet words with a twinkle in her eye, in the overeager way she leaned forward with questions heavy on her tongue, that left him feeling exposed. _It feels like I don't see you around as often_ , she said, smiling wide. _And I was wondering! You know, they've been saying that perhaps you_ -

“What drives you to work so hard? For.” Guydelot gestures vaguely. “The order, this unit, or whatever.”

Without missing a beat.

"To better Gridania.”

“Ugh.” Guydelot’s mouth twists, stuck somewhere between disgust and a smile. He leans over to knock his elbow into the other. “That’s what I thought you’d say, you big stiff.”

“What!” Sanson slides a few inches sideways, and winces as another layer of muck climbs up his boot. “And what’s wrong with that?!”

“I meant on a more personal scale, you dunce.”

The soft cooing of chocobo and the squelch of mud fill the air. Sanson adjusts his mantle after a thoughtful pause. “Well, it all goes hand in hand, doesn’t it? What’s brought this on, all of a sudden?”

“Some soul-searching, is all.” Guydelot squints up at the sky. There’s no break in the clouds yet, that he can see. “My reputation is showing some tarnish. There’s talk that I’ve gone and become a proper hard-working man.”

“… I’d say your reputation could do with some tarnish, honestly.”

"Hah."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Much more immediately post-Stormblood.

Sanson had put on a brave face, but he was quietly tense with terror the entire meeting. He's not sure his heart could've taken it if he had to face the order alone. He's still not entirely sure he survived the earful he got, really, the walk out of the Adder's Nest feels unreal and hazy. Perhaps he did perish and this sensation is simply his ghost is being escorted out to the next life.

"Ugh," Guydelot scoffs at his side. "The order's gonna keep being a pain about all this, I can feel it."

"Of course they will be!" Sanson smacks him, still feeling delirious. He'd cuff Guydelot's ears if he didn't have the height advantage. "What have I told you about mouthing off to your superiors!!"

The stern, disappointed voices of the higher ups echo loud and clear in his mind. ' _You and your unit have caused us no shortage of trouble. First,_ ' They jabbed a furious, accusing finger in Guydelot's direction. ' _He_ _disregards commands to hand over the journal, then everyone else rallies together without official order, and now you have the_ _gall_ _to request that we disclose the contents of this book?'_ He's not sure what would've happened if Commander Heuloix hadn't stepped in.

"Everything worked out, didn't it!" Guydelot protests. He swats away Sanson's hand, with no force behind the action. "We got the job done, _and_ you're here in one piece. Gods know the brass hats weren't gonna lift a damn finger for you."

Sanson can only sigh in response, bringing his hands to his face. It's a deep, draining sigh that leaves him feeling a bit hollow. It's true - he knew that the grand company wouldn't risk its nation over the life of one man, let alone one who was such a thorn in their side. He was resigned to whatever came of Nourval's actions. So, to hear that Guydelot had stubbornly refused to hand over the journal? Sanson feels his face color under his own hands, in both parts exasperation and... something else. He presses against his face, trying to quash and hide the giddy feeling that wells in his chest.

It's not often you find someone who would oppose an army for you, he supposes.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which the job got taken care of, technically.

Sanson's head is ringing. He wishes he could attribute it to something more usual, like having a lot of work on his plate, or perhaps he'd tied his hair back too tightly this morning. Today is not one of those days, unfortunately. Sanson quietly rests his head on the table he's seated at, willing away the throbbing as best he can.

"Well," says a familiar voice, overhead. "I won't put it in the report if you won't."

He considers it, for the briefest of moments. "... Guydelot."

"I'm just saying! You did what you had to--you found our man and." Through the veil of his bangs Sanson sees Guydelot's silhouette make a vague gesture about his own head, before punctuating his statement by lightly rapping his knuckles against the underside of his chin. "Took care of him. Ain't nothing else that matters."

It's not that Guydelot is wrong, exactly. The mission was simple: find the man who has been impersonating as an Adder recruit and apprehend him. It was made all the easier by grace of the man being familiar with Guydelot and how he's with "some pesky bard unit" that's relatively new to the Grand Company, but not the fact that plain, unassuming Smyth was the leader of said unit. All told, it was a fairly smooth mission and the higher ups don't necessarily need details about how the fake had hung off of Sanson with a sneer, seeking sympathy from a supposed fellow Gridanian, as he spat insults about a waste of resources no one wanted and Guydelot's manhood.

Or how Sanson had headbutted the man quite firmly in the jaw.

(He would like to argue it was a matter of position, being leaned on like that narrowed his opportunities and they had to stop the culprit before he could catch on and slip away--but really, it was mostly impulse and perhaps the drinks he'd had earlier because _someone_ insisted they were undercover _, he should at least try to fit in._ )

Either way, there's nothing noble about what was essentially a bar fight, Sanson thinks.

He must have voiced the thought, judging by Guydelot's skeptical hum.

"Eh, you're not wrong," Guydelot says, patting Sanson lightly on the shoulders. There's distinct amusement in his voice, but a distinct warmth, too. "But thanks for defending my honor all the same."


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ... a Nourval/Sanson bit. Pray forgive my indulgence, haha.

Fingers slide along the underside of his jaw, gentle hands suddenly cupping his face and tilting it upwards. Sanson goes rigid, a barely audible exhale forces itself from his lungs. Confusion and a powerful array of other disoriented emotions color his cheeks red. Oh, Sanson thinks dazedly. He can feel the other man's breath against him. Oh.

"If I may express my gratitude for your patience and persistence," Nourval says, his lips curling in too much delight; though his voice is not unkind. "For the past several moons."

"I," Sanson croaks out. Isn't this rather a lot for just checking in on him at the gaol? For keeping his word? He can't seem to put his words together. "Ah?"

Their faces this close, Sanson feels hyper-aware of Nourval's every action. The way Nourval's gaze flickers down to his own lips for the briefest of moments, the bob of his throat as he swallows--almost nervously? With anticipation? Sanson's heart pounds in his chest, as the rest of him remains helplessly frozen in shock and bewilderment. Then, in the same moment, Nourval's eyes slide to the door adjacent to them as he releases Sanson's face from his delicate hold. He lifts both hands in the air, spread apart, as if to show that he was up to nothing scandalous at all, truly, clearly. "Just kidding."

As if on cue, the sound of distant yelling and cursing comes in from the other side of the door; someone arguing with the guards positioned outside. A familiar voice.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Established relationship and the reason for the M rating (to be safe). The lore book mentions that certain Bard AF are tailored depending on the bard's preferred instrument of choice and... well, someone thinks Guydelot looks nice in something proper.

It's partway through his unique brand of cloying (the sort reserved for a specific man under specific situations) that Guydelot realizes something is... different. Not a bad different, not in the slightest. But there's something about Sanson's reactions tonight that raises the fine hair on the back of his neck. As though his partner is more pliant, for some reason. Guydelot turns over different thoughts in his head as he nips at the sensitive skin just under Sanson's jaw, slowly kissing a path back to Sanson's lips.

By all accounts, it's been an ordinary, somewhat slow day. The only big event was, perhaps, the formal ordeal wherein the more musically-inclined members of the unit had at last received the uniforms they'd been fitted for well over a moon ago--

Guydelot breaks the kiss with a small sound. The epiphany leaves his lungs in a soft exhale, and he thinks, surely that couldn't be it? But he gazes down at Sanson and takes in the glossy look of his eyes, the flush that sits high on his cheeks, the faint tremble in his hands where they grip the lapels of his uniform... And it seems too obvious a conclusion, in hindsight. Of course he would be into this. Of course.

"I see." Guydelot leans in close again, delight shining in his eyes. He raises his leg, firmly pressing it against Sanson's groin and relishes in the shiver that elicits. "Should've figured you'd appreciate a man in uniform."

Sanson makes an odd, choked sound at that. He releases his hold on Guydelot and half-falls backward, hands slipping against the desk pressed at his hip as he tries to catch himself. "I--well--"

"Well, how about it?" Guydelot keeps Sanson pinned, trapped between himself and the desk. He slides his lips along the shell of Sanson's ear as he mutters, voice low, "Want to have me like this?"

"And _soil it!?_ " Comes Sanson's immediate, indignant response.

Guydelot ends up having to bury his bark of laughter against Sanson's shoulder.


End file.
